


in aeternum

by Anonymous



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because It's the Old Guard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26133355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A century is a long time.Fifty-five years pass before Booker sees his family again.In which Sebastien Le Livre learns to live with his mistakes, enjoy life in the French countryside, and come to terms with his own mortality.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Eventual Booker | Sebastien Le Livre/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 36
Kudos: 195
Collections: Anonymous





	1. tightness in your chest (no solace in your world)

**_London, 2021_ **

It takes almost half a year for Booker to leave London.

Naturally, he spends about three months wallowing in his own misery first.

He's done this thousand of times over the past two centuries, drifting between any pubs that'll take him and drinking just enough to numb the guilt, heavy and suffocating and a constant companion. Most nights, he manages to stumble back to his crappy hotel room in Hammersmith and pass out for a few hours; other nights, he wanders the city until dawn, reliving the memories of the occasional decades they'd spent in the city. A row of townhouses in Redbridge where a schoolhouse once stood before the Blitz, a cemetery in Newham that had to be expanded when the Spanish flu swept through the city, a public park where one of their old safehouses-

Andy had joked once, during their last, brief stay in Strasbourg, that he seemed far too keen to revisit the places that caused him the most pain.

A bit rich coming from the woman who always found her way back to the sea somehow, but Booker had never found it in himself to judge.

He misses her so much that it _hurts_ , misses each and every one of them with a desperation that makes him want to bury himself six feet deep until his own immortality runs out, and so Booker drinks. 

∞

Regret is a funny thing.

When you're nearly two and half centuries old, there's no running away the choices that you've made, no matter how long you carry their weight with you. No way to escape the consequences of your mistakes, no pretending that some poor soul hasn't been affected by your decisions, no matter what your intentions were.

Booker's not nearly hypocritical enough to blame what his family suffered in Merrick's labs on anyone but himself.

Him, and his naïve fantasies that the people he loved the most in the world would be able to walk away from his betrayal unscathed.

It's utterly astonishing how he keeps ending up in these situations.

But when he's sober and utterly miserable, and nursing a hangover in the darkness of his hotel room bathroom, holding himself under the water in the bathtub until he has to come up for air, Booker wishes that there were someone else to hold responsible for winding up in this position. That there were another, equally deplorable immortal in their family to point his finger at, that he'd had a hand in deciding the exile of a person he's never met.

There's no taking back what he's done. There will never be.

But he can dream, can't he?

∞

Five and a half months into his exile, Booker spends nearly an entire day in a pub halfway across the city from his shitty rented room. Most places have already shut their doors when the owners kick him out at some unholy hour of the morning, and so he staggers his way into a graveyard across the street. It's a small lot, nestled in next to an equally small church, and so overgrown with weeds and mosses that it's a wonder someone hasn't already steamrolled the place to match the rest of the neighborhood.

With enough alcohol in his system to destroy his liver ten times over, Booker winds up slouched against a crumbling section of brick wall, legs useless and sprawled out in front of him. His flask is still fairly full, and while Booker isn't fond of drinking in groups, he can make an exception for such a tranquil crowd.

Hours later, sun starting to rise, Booker is still staring out at the gravestones, alone but for a handful of wild pigeons.

It's impossible to escape his most wicked thoughts without any drink to distract him, and the strangers whose resting places he's surrounded himself with only further accuse Booker of his many wrongdoings. He would apologize to their ghosts if they could absolve him of everything he's done, though he doubts even the most charitable of them would take pity on him.

And somewhere in the middle of his daily self-flagellation, Booker finds himself thinking clearly for possibly the first time in decades.

He thinks of his sons, dead and buried, and of the tiny cottage in Strasbourg he raised his siblings in.

He thinks of Andy, slowly aging with the rest of the world, freed from her own nightmares and burdens.

He thinks of Joe and Nicky, of his own unspoken desires, of lonely nights spent with only drink for company.

He thinks of Quynh, still at the bottom of the ocean, mind shattered and screaming for her Andromache.

He thinks of Nile, so young and strong and full of life, and prays futilely for a future that she deserves.

∞

A week later, Booker leaves for Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first time writing for this fandom and i just HAD to start with a booker-works-through-his-issues-via-therapy-and-sort-of-redeems-himself fic
> 
> not sure how many chapters this will be but let me know what you guys think of it in the comments!!
> 
> title of this chapter comes from 'What Are You Afraid Of' by Scott Quinn


	2. how far we fell (don't have an answer, don't have a plan)

**_Paris, 2024_ **

Paris isn't so different from London, in many respects.

Not in any of the ways that matter, naturally, because Booker still has _some_ sense of national pride that time hasn't yet scrubbed from him.

It's awfully humiliating to remember how easily the sprawling beginnings of a magnificent city had awed him, the impoverished provincial deserter fresh from his first death, hunting down any traces of the family he'd left behind. So many questions that he couldn't find the answers for, so many foolish hopes that he'd clung to in his direst moments, so many childish dreams he'd allowed himself to indulge-

He'd built something in this city, and, for a fleeting moment, it had been a sacred thing.

But a century is still a century, and Paris _,_ for all that Booker adores it and its questionable hygiene practices, is just as empty as every other city he'll pass through in the next ninety-six years.

And yet, in spite of everything he's certain will come to pass, there's no place Booker would rather be.

∞

On the rare nights he doesn't hole up in his apartment with a half-empty bottle picked up at the supermarket down the street, Booker goes out. 

It's not that he prefers to drink amongst strangers, not at all. But there are some days when Booker would rather listen to the blaring of car horns during rush hour and walk through freezing rain than spend the night with nothing but silence and stillness for company. He remembers how awful the early days of his immortality were, in a world that seemed so quiet in comparison, in those quiet moments when there was nothing to draw his mind away from his most unforgiving thoughts.

Tonight, Booker finds himself in a tiny rundown bar somewhere in Aubervilliers. 

As the evening wears on, there's little need for Booker to be cautious, tucked away into the booth furthest from the door. It's been hours since anyone stepped in, which he supposes should tell him something about the place, and the bartender is doing their damnedest to hide how frequently they're glancing between their watch and Booker. Any other place might've had the common sense to cut him off by now, or at least slow him down - even Booker's lost track of exactly how much he's had tonight, which is usually a bad sign.

He tempted to keep going. _Extremely_ tempted.

But-

But Booker remembers.

He spends a full minute wrestling with his wallet once he frees himself from the booth, tossing a handful of euros onto the counter. There should be enough change left over for a decent tip, but Booker is too exhausted to check and already betting on whether he'll make it to the bed tonight, when- 

"Hey, you want me to call a taxi?"

Apart from repeating his drink orders back to him, Booker hasn't heard the bartender say more than a few words the entire evening. It's a bit jarring, to say the very least.

"Sorry?"

"A taxi." They sigh, partway through clearing out the register. "It's late, and a taxi'll get you home quicker than walking."

It's nothing Booker hasn't heard before, no matter how delicately phrased, no matter how casual the concern is. He waves it off easily enough, distracted by the monumental task of trying to remember which pocket his keys are in, and that by the light drizzle that's started since he was last outside. So distracted that he takes a few steps forward and looks up just in time to smack his head right on the doorframe.

Things go a little blurry after that. When the spots in his vision clear and the ceiling is kind enough to stop spinning so violently, Booker finds himself flat on his back, the bartender staring down at him, looking extremely unimpressed.

Booker can't imagine why.

"How far do you have to walk?"

"...too far," he admits.

"Thought so," they sigh, and hold out their hand.

Booker accepts it with as much grace as he can manage, which is to say practically none, though the bartender doesn't comment. They disappear into the back for a few minutes once they're certain he won't immediately topple over, jogging back out with a coat and scarf that reminds Booker of a set that Nicky used to wear a few decades back. He barely even realizes that he's being ushered outside until the rain hits his face, the bar locked up behind them, and the bartender already setting a brisk pace.

With an exasperated look once they realize he hasn't moved, the bartender gestures for Booker to follow.

"Well, come on."

Booker can't find a good reason to say no.

∞

While they're waiting to cross the street, his chaperone tries to make small talk.

"Name's Sasha."

"Sébastien."

They don't get much further than that.

As it turns out, Sasha lives just a few blocks north of the bar, in a building that's clearly aging and barely more than ten stories tall. Booker manages to make it up several flights of stairs without knocking himself out a second time, and stays upright for the few minutes it takes for Sasha to unlock the door and let him in. The cramped space almost makes Booker grateful for his own shitty flat - he tries to say as much to Sasha in a mix of Provençal and Low Prussian, which only makes them shake their head and point him towards the living room.

"Sleep it off on the couch, asshole."

If Booker were any less hammered, he might be inclined to agree with Sasha.

Instead, he passes out as soon as he makes it to the couch.

The apartment is deserted when Booker blinks awake the next morning with an imprint of the couch fading on his cheek.

He doesn't feel too awful, but he's not all that keen on waiting around and giving Sasha another chance to chastise him. With a key hanging by the door, Booker locks up behind himself and slides it back under the door. It's a gorgeous day, by all accounts, but Booker feels no need to savor it, hightailing it out of the neighborhood so quickly that he has to backtrack a few times. So quickly that he's more than halfway across town by the time he notices an unfamiliar weight inside his jacket.

The centuries-old soldier in him is quick to assume the worst, as that mistrustful bastard has always been prone to do, but Booker quashes his curiosity until he's hidden away in his flat, door bolted and locked.

It's nothing.

It's a _pamphlet_.

A pamphlet for a recovery group.

After a few minutes, Booker folds the pamphlet in half with trembling hands, and sets it down on his kitchen table.

 _Later_ , he promises himself, as he unscrews his flask and drifts towards the bedroom, _later_ , when he's numbed himself enough that he can stand to look at it, he'll get rid of it.

∞

Ultimately, Booker doesn't get round to throwing the pamphlet in the trash, but it _does_ serve as a wonderful coaster for the commemorative mug he picked up at the airport.

The coffee stains on its laminated surface condemn him every time he takes a seat at the kitchen table to do research for his master's project, to read the tabloid's latest take on the scandal within the prime minister's cabinet, to stare at the walls and remember better times when draining his flask doesn't banish the nightmares of frozen corpses and crows as well as it used to.

Booker finds that he's perfectly alright with that.

∞

The pamphlet gathers dust on the table for nineteen days before Booker sits down and dials the number on the back.

∞

To Booker's surprise, he enjoys attending the meetings a great deal more than he thought he would.

He's not exactly an enthusiastic participant to begin with, sitting as far back in the room as he's able, the weight of his flask tucked away in his jacket occupying all of his attention. It's even more of a challenge to leave the apartment that first evening, the very thought of stepping through the door leaving him paralyzed in the kitchen, staring down the sink as a familiar, visceral feeling of panic smothers him.

Perhaps it's a not a great sign that it takes downing several swigs of cheap cognac for Booker to make it to the recreation center on time.

But Booker's never had a decent track record with caution and forethought. He'll admit that spending an hour or so every week listening to other people talk is miles better than how he usually spends his evening - at least the room they've claimed in the recreation center has decent lighting and heating, and it doesn't take half an hour for the water in the toilets to heat up.

It's nice enough of a change that he goes back the following week.

∞

It's not as difficult as it used to be, for Booker to share.

For as long as he'd known Andy and Joe and Nicky, there was so much he'd never found the courage to tell them about - the woman he'd loved against his better judgement, the family they'd built together in the middle of a war, the sons who died cursing his name, the brothers and sisters who'd managed to succeed in the world where he never would.

Here, amongst people who have never known Sébastien Le Livre and his multitude of sins, confession comes a little easier.

He asks after Brigitte's grandchildren when they're waiting around for the night bus, and sits down with Mattéo at break time to sketch out a plan for returning to school in the new year. He learns the names of each of Killian's siblings and how nervous Auguste is about opening the letter he received from the College of Art two weeks ago. He learns how long it's been since Veronique last saw her children, and how she doesn't know whether the cards she sends at Christmas ever get opened. He buys himself a copy of the book of poems that Adel published at the beginning of the year, and visits a patisserie that specializes in vegan products every week he's assigned to bring refreshments for break time.

It isn't much.

And it won't last forever.

But for however long Booker is allowed to have this, he cherishes it.

∞

In time, Booker makes his way back to that bar in Aubervilliers.

Sasha is surprised to see him the first night when he slips inside in the middle of the evening rush. The place is busy enough with regulars that they can only manage a brief smile in his direction before someone else shouts for their attention, drawing them away.

Booker stays just long enough to finish a plate of falafel and a beer, and leaves a handful of euros tucked under his plate when he's finished.

They're only marginally less surprised when he returns a few days later, and significantly less busy.

He keeps going back.

∞

A week before the deadline that Andy used to enforce for their family arrives, Booker decides on Turkey.

It - it doesn't hurt as much as it once did, to say goodbye.

∞

When he gets off the plane in Istanbul, Booker wastes an entire day wandering down along the waterfront, and picks up two postcards from a souvenir stall near his hotel.

The first, he sends to the PO box that Copley set up in Munich, his current address written on the back.

The second, he sends to Sasha, tucked into an envelope along with a plain plastic chip card and a pin number scrawled onto a piece of unmarked paper.

∞

A week and a half later, Booker gets a postcard of Antibes in return, a neat 'thank you' written on the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are the absolute BEST! thank you so much for your comments and kudos and patience - i'm doing my best to post regularly, but my schedule is a bit packed right now so there might a few weeks without a chapter now and then
> 
> this chapter is a bit longer because i wanted to delve into booker's recovery process and his attempts to not be a complete disaster of a human being
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> title of the chapter is from 'People Like You' by Pip Lewis


	3. breathe life into the corners (halfway out the door)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Istanbul, Booker dreams of drowning.

_**Istanbul, 2031** _

In Istanbul, Booker dreams of drowning.

∞

It's still dark when Booker slips out of the apartment.

He hasn't gotten nearly enough sleep to go on a proper run, but spending the rest of the night cooped up in his study won't do him any good, and the waterfront isn't that far of a walk. Decently lit, thankfully, and deserted enough at this hour that Booker doesn't feel too self-conscious about parking himself on a bench and falling to pieces.

One would think that two centuries would be enough time to numb a person to any experience.

Even death.

But Booker has always been exceptionally skilled at defying people's expectations, and so he puts his head between his knees and tries to wrangle his mounting panic into something more manageable, something that doesn't make him want to claw at his arms just to keep himself grounded. He tries to recall the breathing exercises his therapist coached him through over the phone, to concentrate on the pressure of his hands clasped together, to focus on anything besides the lingering taste of seawater and brine. 

It's not easy, never has been, never will be - but he manages. 

∞

Booker remembers the first time that he dreamt of the ocean.

Tucked away in a small room in an inn on the outskirts of Bialystok, Booker had welcomed sleep as one might an old friend. A few weeks worth of hard riding from his first resting place, nothing had ever been as tempting as the prospect of rest - and without a second thought, Booker had, the waking world slipping away in a matter of seconds.

The first thing he'd known was darkness.

Darkness was not unfamiliar to Booker. Neither was the persistent, numbing cold.

But the burning pressure in his chest-

The oppressive silence suffocating his screams-

The bloody scrapes on his hands from beating against the inside of an iron coffin, already mending-

The maddening urge to just take a _breath-_

And then his lungs were flooding with water, and his throat was seizing with the sudden onslaught, and what little he could make out of the murky depths was slipping away into an emptiness that he was starting to become well-acquainted with.

He nearly woke the rest of the inn with his screaming, choking on the taste of saltwater and gasping for air like a man who feared death.

Half a week of riding later, half-starved and too exhausted to remember why he had been riding for so long without rest, Booker found yet another inn willing to take his stolen coin, and dreamt of the ocean again. 

And again.

And again.

∞

Sometimes, Booker wonders what she sees through his eyes.

The new exhibit from the Ihlara Valley is certainly fascinating, but it's been a few hours since he stepped through the doors of the archaeological museum, and his mind is starting to stray into dangerous territory.

He fiddles with a pamphlet until the pages are creased beyond repair, then rolls it up tight and presses it into his thigh as he does his best to commit the intricacies of a reconstructed urn to memory. It's just enough to draw Booker's wayward thoughts back to the task at hand, back to the present - enough, at least until he's obliged to move on to the next room and start all over again. 

The dreams are a two-way street. That much he understands, that much he learned from the three strangers who appeared on his doorstep one idyllic Paris morning.

Well. Not entirely strangers.

In any case, it feels odd to refer to Quynh in such simplistic terms, considering just how long she's been a part of his life, however intrusive and unwanted she tends to be. And yet, somehow, in spite of the centuries they've spent trespassing upon each other's dreams, there's still so little that he knows about the woman dying at the bottom of the ocean, whose desperation and rage and heartbreak he knows better than the back of his own hand.

Perhaps, when they reach that place that eludes them, he'll have a chance to ask.

∞

"Her name was Quynh," Andy tells him once.

They're in Athens for the month, completing all the usual background work before they meet a new contact. Nicky and Joe are somewhere out in the city tonight, Booker is putting the finishing touches on the documents they'll need to allay suspicion, and there's a half-empty bottle of moonshine keeping Andy company out on the balcony.

Even in the dark, he can see how tightly she grasps the necklace that she's never taken off, how heavy the weight is that she carries.

There isn't much that he can offer her.

But he tries anyway.

They sit together in silence for hours, passing the bottle between them until there's nothing left to drink, and longer still. When the sun starts to rise, he asks, and it is the only answer that she is able to give.

He never finds the courage to ask again.

∞

A week after the museum, Booker goes to the beach, and soaks in the sun until he burns.

That night, when he dreams of the ocean, she is smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, thanks for being so patient with me and my inattentive brain! i wanted to explore more of booker's relationship with quynh and how he copes with teh dreams, so there's very little dialogue in this chapter - which actually made writing it harder somehow
> 
> anyway, i hope you guys enjoy this chapter. as always, reviews, comments, criticisms, and headcanons are welcome!
> 
> the title of this chapter comes from Boreas by The Oh Hellos


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